


Le Cirque de Vale

by livinginnightvale (cloudsgrl)



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Alternate Universe, CircusVale, Don't want to spoil anything, Gen, Inspired by The Night Circus, M/M, more characters will be added as it's written, suicide mention (offscreen)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-13
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-04 11:54:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1778089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudsgrl/pseuds/livinginnightvale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The circus arrives without warning. No announcements precede it. Today it is there, when yesterday it was not. Within the black, white, gray, and purple tents is an experience full of wonder. It is called Le Cirque des Cauchemars, and it is only open at night.</p><p>But behind the scenes, a competition is underway: a duel between two magicians, Cecil and Carlos, who have been trained by childhood expressly for this purpose by their instructors. This is a game where only one can be left standing.</p><p>With the high stakes, Cecil and Carlos eventually tumble into love, setting off a domino effect of dangerous consequences, and living the lives of the performers and patrons hanging in the balance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Anticipation

**Author's Note:**

> As stated in the tags, this fic is heavily influenced by the book "The Night Circus". However, only the format, the summary, and the idea come from the book, whereas everything else will be completely modified and worked out to fit Night Vale.
> 
> I am only posting this prologue for now, and won't update until I have a couple chapters worth of padding to rely upon. Hope you enjoy this peek.

The circus arrives with no warning.There are no signs, no announcements, not even a vaguely worded message via radio is heard. It is just there, when hours before it was not.

Tents, towering and imposing, are covered in blacks, whites, grays, and purples. Black and white stripes. White with purple dots, gray with white dots, solid black, solid white, and so on. Amongst these colors, hidden about in shapes and designs painted on carts, or on the signs further in are eyes. Hundreds of eyes staring in different directions, encouraging the sensation of being watched. Any other color in the circus comes from the objects around it, and objects they could not remove: trees, grass, and the ineffable sky above.

And yet, the circus is not open.

Word spread quickly about the surprise circus, and as people got out of school, left work, or met up with friends, they all heard of the circus that appeared in only hours, and the impressive appearance therein. People stare at the tallest tents, and question what could be held in the smaller. They stare at a clock just beyond the gate in wonder.

The gate iron is dark, black, with spirals and eyes and shapes that end in points. The designs are both beautiful and almost menacing, hinting at the pain and agony one might incur should they try to scale the fence and peek within.

A gray sign painted in purple letters hangs on the gates that reads:

_Opens at sundown,  
Closes at sunrise_

The whisper goes through the crowds, all questioning why a circus would only be open at night. There is no response or answer to be heard, and as sundown approaches, the crowds shift and grow.

You are among them. Your curiosity has gotten the best of You, and as You stand amongst the figures eagerly awaiting to get in, You wrap your scarf tighter around You to fight off the chilly night air.

The ticket booth is still closed and barred, easily noticeable from the gates. The tents are unmoving except for the cold breeze wandering through the air. The only true movement in the circus is the clock that counts the passing minutes, if such a thing could be called a clock.

The circus appears abandoned, empty, dead. But You think You could smell the delicious caramel that apples are dunked into, just beneath the smell of autumn. It is a subtle sweetness against the cold.

The sun disappears behind clouds and the looming horizon, and what remains shifts to that ethereal twilight. The people around You grow restless from waiting, and debate leaving and finding something warmer to do. You vaguely think about it yourself when it happens.

There is a snapping sound. A soft noise like a kettle about to boil. And then comes the light.

It starts over the tents, small lights like candles or thin filaments flicker. The crowd quiets to watch the opening in awe. Someone nearby gasps, and a child in front of You claps and bounces on their feet in excitement. When the tents are doused in light, sparkling against the swirling void of the night sky, the sign appears.

It stretches across the tops of the gates, hidden in the curly qs of the shapes, and more lights come alive. The spark as they glow, allowing little drops of light fall from the source and drip to the ground, fading before hitting the grass. Some people take a step back, not wanting to touch the dying embers.

They appear in random patterns, but eventually more and more begin to brighten, and it becomes clear they are aligned in letters. First a C and then a Q, a couple of E's. As the last light appears, and the dripping embers fade, it reveals an elaborate sign. You lean to your side to get a better view, and You can read:

_Le Cirque des Cauchemars_

Someone in the crowd smiles, while many frown and look at their neighbor with questions. The child before You tugs on their parent’s sleeve, wanting to know what it says.

"The Circus of Nightmares," is their response. The child smiles brightly before frowning, wondering at the meaning.

The gates seem to tremble and unlock, all on their own volition. Slowly, they swing open, and invite the large crowd inside.

The circus is open.

You may enter.


	2. Infancy - Unexpected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She receives an unplanned package and must reevaluate.

New York, February 1873

The woman who is heralded as Faceless was known for receiving plenty of mail through the theatre office, but this was the first that contained a barely legible suicide note pinned to the coat of a five year old child.

The lawyer and officer duo who escorted the child were quick to hand off the note and the child into the theatre manager's hands before absconding without so much as a word. The manager did not even glance at the envelope to know who it was for, peering at the child with a practiced eye. The child's hair was loose and wild, curling in almost ringlets around the pointy cheeks, wide nose, and pale blue eyes. The manager offered the child a hand, and he takes it limply. The manager leads him to his office, not sure what else to do. The child sits on one of the chairs closest to the door, hands carefully in his lap, hair falling to obscure his face, and his feet slowly kicking back and forth to some unheard beat. 

Along the walls are posters of shows old and new, some faded and beginning to tear with their own weight, others still pristine. He looks out of place beneath them, in his raggedy coat, almost too large shirt, and shorts underneath the display of wealth. The manager brings him a cup of water, but it is untouched upon the desk, where it steadily turns to room temperature.

Eventually the manager leaves the room, closing the door behind him, leaving the child to slowly pick their head up and peer at the boxes of tickets, and receipt stubs, and balance books. His feet kick back and forth to the sound of the manager pacing outside the door. And then he leaves, and returns with the echo of much smaller, but still powerful steps. The two pairs stop outside the door and the child hears the manager's words.

"You have a package, Faceless," the manager stammers before opening the door and practically darting off to deal with other theatre matters. Faceless, a woman in a tight black dress with a long train stepped inside the office, her heels clicking against the flooring. Her pale eyes beneath wispy black bangs survey the piles of letters, the stacks of tickets and stubs, with her hands clasping a folded fan between them.

It is only when the child meets her gaze with matching eyes that she drops her fan in shock.

The child lowers his gaze once again.

Faceless takes a deep breath and steps further inside, closing the door behind her. She carefully grabs her fan and places it on the desk beside the untouched water. She looks at the child and reaches a gloved hand out to take the letter pinned to the child's coat.

The name on the front was carefully typed to a "Faceless Woman" via the theatre, but inside, in recognizable (if not shaky) script was her given name, Cara Palmer.

She reads over the letter, all emotional impact within only stirring a hint of dismay and frustration, and she stops. A gloved finger tip taps at the ink that states the child is now in her custody, her nephew, Cecil. Her burden to care for via her sister’s untimely departure.

"She should have named you Malachi," the lady referred to as Faceless commented, almost snickering at the idea of such a name. "I suppose your mother wasn't clever enough to think of it."

The child looks up at her again. Bright eyes narrow beneath the curls. The water cup begins to shake. The liquid within froths and bubbles, overflowing the glass and seeping into the desk, running over the edge and onto the ground. The cup continues to shake, doing a little jig on the surface before falling to the ground and shattering. The child jumps and stares at Faceless with worry.

The woman's smile disappears. She looks at the desk with a scowl and the water drains itself upward. The broken pieces of glass return to the surface and mend together, the liquid falling within, as though no destruction had occurred.

The child stares at the glass, eyes wide.

Cara takes her nephew's face in her hands, peering at him for a moment before releasing him. His cheeks flush red from the strength of her grip. "This will be interesting," Cara remarks.

The boy does not respond.

Cara makes multiple attempts to rename him in the following weeks, but he refuses to respond to anything but Cecil. 

 

Several months later, once she decides he is ready, the Faceless Woman writes her own letter. She does not bother with an address, but it reaches its destination across the ocean nonetheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for how short this is. I feared if I added it with the next section it would be too long and then you'd have to wait much longer for an update (especially since I'll be without a computer for the next 10 days).
> 
> This chapter is still sticking really close to TNC canon, but soon enough we'll be diverting off course, I do hope you'll enjoy it.


End file.
